Lost Friends
by OzGeek
Summary: Written for the NFA "Autopsy Men Challenge" - stories where Jimmy and/or Ducky are the main focus. This is a case file story centered on Jimmy but Ducky helps out a lot. 14 Chapters - now complete.
1. Lost Friends

Written for the NFA Autopsy Men Challenge. In this case, Jimmy is the central character but Ducky helps out a lot. It's casefile which is rare for me and not particularly funny, because I'm not in that sort of mood.

**Challenge Details**

_Write a fic in which the work of Ducky/Jimmy takes center stage. Both must appear in the story. One, or both, of them must be the central character(s) in the fic. It doesn't have to be a casefile. There are other ways of showcasing them. The story doesn't even have to concern an autopsy. If you can find another way to put the spotlight on one or both of them, you can do so._

_Word count: 1500 minimum, no maximum.  
Due date: 17 May 2008_

* * *

**Chapter 1 – Lost friends**

The Navy Yard was particularly bleak this time of year, Palmer thought, eerily illuminated in the late afternoon sun with the wind whistling through bare trees: more so with the body lying secreted in the corner behind the row of dumpsters that lined the back wall.

Ducky was already fussing with the preliminaries: waiting patiently for his liver probe to estimate the time of death.

Palmer scanned their latest customer. For a moment it looked like any other human corpse: casually clothed, it sported a single gunshot wound to the shoulder and its neck was comprehensively broken. Then he came to the face and the corpse smiled brightly at him: the eyes crinkling in an open, friendly, warm and welcoming manner.

The temperature went up a few hundred degrees causing him to sweat profusely as the world spun around him in shuddering quarter turns.

"Are you feeling unwell, Mr ……?" Ducky's distant voice faded out.

* * *

"I'll thank you to keep your school boy teasing to yourself, Antony," Ducky's sharp retort cut through the air like one of Ziva's dagger, drowning out the tinnitus screeching full bore in Palmer's ears. "Mr Palmer is one of the best up-and-coming MEs with whom I've had the privilege to work. He is either unwell or just plain exhausted from extensive medical study combined with the workload we have been thrusting upon him: Unlike you... " Ducky's voice soften abruptly, "Jimmy: Jimmy are you with me?"

Belatedly, Palmer realised his eyes were open. He wasn't sure when that had happened but from what he could see though half a pane of warped glasses, the NCIS agents were all staring at him from beyond some magical, invisible force field that Ducky had set up around the two of them. He was in the recovery position – an uncomfortable configuration that he might have altered had his body not felt like a lead weight.

The ground was hard: gritty cold cement that broke loose and scraped against his face as he turned his head. His cheek hurt – he was going to have a great bruise tomorrow that he could never hide from his mother.

"Your blood sugar is fine," Ducky muttered.

Palmer felt Ducky slide the glucose meter back into his pocket. He was thankful the experienced doctor had thought to check but he was pretty sure his diabetes was not at the root of this particular problem.

"Let's get you more comfortable," said Ducky soothingly, rolling him gently onto his back.

Embarrassment urged him to bound to his feet but logic told him the result would only be another fall straight back on his face. So he acquiesced to Ducky's request and lay on his back with his knees up, trying to encourage the blood back into his head.

"You're hyperventilating," Ducky confided in a low doctor-to-doctor conspiratorial tone. "Can you get that under control?"

Palmer nodded: he hadn't been aware that his shock was so obvious. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. There, cocooned in his own world, he could not believe how bad he felt: nauseous, dizzy and sweaty. His sympathy for all the Probies who had ever passed out or thrown up at their first autopsy in his presence increased ten fold.

"How's that body going, Ducky?" Gibbs called.

Palmer's eyes flew open and he saw Gibbs hovering in the distance: even he didn't dare breach Ducky's perimeter.

"Your John Doe isn't going anywhere," Ducky snapped.

"OK," Gibbs backed off with his hands aloft in surrender.

"Jonstone," Palmer heard the name rasp from the back of his own throat reflexively.

"What was that, my boy?" Ducky inquired benevolently.

Palmer squeezed his eyes shut but could not stop the hot tears from welling through the lids. "His name is….was Matt Jonstone."

"Ahhhh, Palmer: I'm so very sorry." Ducky's voice was full of warmth and understanding.

Ducky settled himself on the ground: folding his arms thoughtfully as he leaned his back against a convenient dumpster and stretched his legs out before him. "I remember my first time," he said quietly, "as clearly as if it were yesterday."

It was rare that Palmer found Ducky's anecdotes comforting but this one he truly wanted to hear.

"I was in Vietnam. You got to know all the soldiers there. They came to you with everything from cuts and abrasions to genital Herpes." He paused for a solitary humourless chuckle. "Then they started coming in body bags. People only days before you'd been sending off with a sticking plaster were coming back with half their heads blown off. It was demoralizing, confronting and simultaneously the best and worst time of my life." He paused to look off into the distance to the agents prowling around the crime scene. "They don't understand, that lot. They see the bodies but not as we see them. Don't let them bother you. Shock is a very natural reaction. You can see hundreds of bodies and be fine and then one day – boom, it just hits you. It happens to all of us and it never stop happening. We're only human."

Palmer looked up at Ducky and found a kindred spirit. Sometimes it was difficult to believe someone as experienced and, let's face it, downright ancient as Ducky was ever a young raw ME like himself.

"At first you never think it will be someone you know," Ducky continued almost wistfully. "Then after a while, you think you know them all." He looked down at Palmer and said gravely, "I'll do the autopsy."

"No!" Palmer utilized the excess adrenaline to hoist his body to a slouching sit. He realised his tie had been pulled loose and his top three shirt buttons were undone: the dishevelled attire mirroring his hassled state.

"Are you sure?"

Palmer nodded. There was always the chance that he would know the victim whether it be an agent, a co-worker or a friend. This was part of his job and he had better find out if he could cope now. "I need to do this," he said simply.

"That's my boy," Ducky smiled.

Palmer looked over at the body of his friend once more and found the face lifeless, expressionless and tinged with blue. It was still surreal but the initial shock was fading. Matt was gone – and he had a job to do.

* * *


	2. The other side of the coin

**Chapter 2 – The other side of the coin**

"Jethro," Ducky called over Palmer's head. "Mr Palmer here has an ID for your John Doe."

Palmer struggled to a sitting position whilst attempting to adjust his glasses but gave up after a couple of attempts, realising they were intrinsically out of kilter from their unexpected meeting with Terra Firma. He still felt a little delicate but he had youth and determination on his side: no one was going to see him pass out again.

"Com' on son."

He was startled to find Gibbs standing over him offering his hand.

"We need to talk," said Gibbs seriously.

Palmer stared at the hand momentarily then accepted, allowing Gibbs to pull him to his feet.

"Walk with me, Palmer," Gibbs invited, taking out his note book.

"Yes….Agent … Special Agent Gibbs … Sir," Palmer fumbled for a title. The Agents called the man 'Boss', Ducky called him 'Jethro' but neither seemed appropriate forms of address for an autopsy assistant.

Gibbs merely smiled. "Who was he Palmer?"

"Matt…Matt Jonstone."

"And how do you know him?"

"He's in medical school and head of the hiking club."

"Any idea why he'd be walking around a Navy Yard with no ID on him."

"No sir. He um looks like he might have just been on a hike." His memory whirred into life and his pace slowed. "The hike – the monthly hike: it's on Sunday – like yesterday, first Sunday of every month."

They came to a halt as they reached the NCIS squad car.

"Tell me about him," Gibbs prompted.

Turning to face Gibbs, Palmer's peripheral vision caught a glimpse of Ducky zipping up the body bag and his mouth went dry. Small tremors resonated around his body and he wished he had the courage to ask Gibbs' permission to sit down. There was no need; silently Gibbs opened the rear door of the squad car.

"Sit Palmer," he directed.

Palmer breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Sir."

"Here." Gibbs thrust a bottle of water in his unsteady hands.

Palmer concentrated on taking a long, purposeful gulp but the tongue that rasped over his papery lips in its wake was still painfully dry.

"Tell me about Matt Jonstone," Gibbs tried again.

Palmer took deep breath and collected his memories. "Matt runs the hiking club. He does - did it all: chose the trails, he did the research, made sure all the right kit was packed and in good condition. "

"How well did you know him?"

"Um, fairly well: there were about 30 in the group but he made sure he got to know everyone. I was doing med, he was doing med and his brother was a doctor. He was just really great – really friendly…." his voice trailed off as Matt's face materialised before him: that open smile with the crinkly eyes…the same one he had just seen moments ago on the face of the victim lying behind the trash bins.

Next thing he knew Gibbs was draping a jacket around his shoulders. His entire body was ice cold and vibrating. The panting had returned full force – if he wasn't careful he'd pass out purely from hyperventilation.

Gibbs squatted in front of him. "Deep breath, Palmer," he said kindly, bathing him in a warm coffee breeze.

"I'll thank you to take better care of my assistant Special Agent Gibbs," Ducky admonished appearing from nowhere, his tone bordering somewhere between friendship and warning and Palmer could feel the old man's hands lingering on his shoulders. His superior almost never touched him but now there was comforting parental warmth, protecting him.

"He's fine, Ducky," Gibbs re-assured him.

"Hrumph," Ducky did not sound convinced. "I think Mr Palmer has helped you enough for now." The challenge was clear, daring Gibbs to contradict him. "If you need anything further, you know where to find him."

With that, Ducky replaced Gibbs' jacket with a blanket and led him back to the van.


	3. Driving Mr Jimmy

**Chapter 3 – Driving Mr Jimmy**

"Why do they put the confounded indicators on the wrong side," Ducky grumbled as he rounded another corner with the wipers screeching furiously against the dry windscreen.

Years of driving his beloved British Morgan Roadster had resulted in Ducky avoiding climbing behind the wheel of the NCIS left hand drive vehicles under most circumstances. The controls were on the wrong side and he spent most of the journey hard against the side of the road, more used to the Morgan's driver's position. In fact, Palmer had been so worried about it that he had offered to drive as per usual but Ducky just gave him a disbelieving look over the rim of his glasses and jumped into the driver's seat.

In hindsight, it was probably just as well. His spare glasses were still back at headquarters and no amount of manipulation was going to return his current spectacles to their former glory.

Palmer smiled slightly at Ducky's attempts to introduce light conversation into an uncharacteristically dour and tense and drew the blanket tighter around his shoulders. The shaking was still with him but he wasn't sure if it was due to persistent shock or simply a perfectly normal response to Ducky's driving. Wisely he did not voice his internal debate.

He closed his eyes and tensed as another wave of panic swept over him. The attacks had started almost the moment he sat in the van and were characterised by great bursts of sweating, shaking, heart palpitations and rampaging breathing. At first his fist kept clenching and rising to his chest, the tips of his fingers tingling with the strain and excess oxygen but over the course of the trip, he found that by mentally repeating the mantra "Oh My God" over and over in his head he could confine the outbursts to merely clenched fists and bouts of rapid hyperventilation.

He knew Ducky was painfully aware of what was going on but the old man tactfully said nothing, keeping his attention focused on the road until it was over with just the occasional furtive concerned look in his direction. Then he would chime in with some intentionally bland conversation to occupy the two of them until the next bout hit.

Palmer relaxed as the panic subsided again. Somehow he kept expecting Matt to suddenly spring up from the back of the van and shout, "Surprise!" It was just the sort of prank he would pull when they were hiking – perhaps not with the broken neck and vacant scare – but along those lines. He knew it was denial. He'd heard the term, he understood the concept but even then he just could not believe someone as young and vibrant as Matt could ever die. He just didn't seem the type.

Refocussing on the world outside, he realised they were pulling into the NCIS garage.

"I think we'll call it a day," said Ducky, securing the hand brake.

Palmer eyed him suspiciously; worried the cunning old man would send him home and perform the autopsy in his absence.

Ducky caught his look and laughed. "Don't worry," he assured him. "I'll wait."

"Oh, I didn't mean to imply…" Palmer burst out hastily.

"Yes you did," Ducky dismissed him. "I'd suspect the same if our positions were reversed." He paused and levelled a serious look in Palmer direction. "And I would expect you to wait for me. First thing tomorrow morning – 8 am sharp."

Palmer nodded and the two shared a grim smile of understanding. "8 am," Palmer confirmed, "I'll be there."

"I can take Mr Jonstone to his lodgings for the night," Ducky said climbing out of his unaccustomed driving seat. "Why don't you head on home."

Palmer almost protested then relented: he felt terrible, it had been a long, long day and he really did just want to get home and crash. "Ok, thanks."


	4. View from the outside

**Chapter 4 – View from the outside**

The trolley's rattle provided a comfortingly familiar sound as Palmer wheeled Matt Jonstone's body back from the small X-ray room. As X-rays easily penetrated body bags, he could enjoy his peaceful daily routine under the blatantly false assertion that the body cocooned anonymously before him belong to a random nameless person. Today, he promised himself, he would be calm, rational and above all: professional.

Unlike last night: punctuated as it was by panic attacks moderated by his newly discovered mantra. He was pragmatic enough to understand the grieving drill. The first night was always the hardest and he tackled it head on: going to bed early and just staying there until morning regardless of what his sub conscious chose to dig up. If he stayed up late worrying about sleeping, then every time he started awake out of some horrendous nightmare he would panic about not getting enough sleep. If he went to bed early then, at each frantic wakeful moment, he'd tell himself he had plenty of time to rest. This allowed him space to calm down and sleep again. Thankfully the plan had worked so, although he had slept fitfully, he felt rested enough to do what he had to do this morning.

"Let's see what we've got," said Ducky, picking up the X-rays from the top of the body as Palmer wheeled the gurney into autopsy.

Palmer parked the trolley and joined Ducky gazing up at the films, deliberately avoiding the death certificate paper work lying on the table. It seemed amazing that a whole person's life could be summarised succinctly in about 6 pieces of paper documenting birth to death.

"What do you think, Mr Palmer?"

Palmer snapped out of his philosophizing and focused his eyes on the well lit screens before him. He entertained the thought of acting as though he had been studying them the entire time but he knew the smart old ME would never fall for it. "Well the gunshot wound certainly didn't kill him."

"My word, no."

"It looks like the shot was fired first and then the neck was broken."

"Anything more?"

Palmer scowled as he examined the images. "The angle on the bullet is strange."

"Ahh, now you're thinking."

"It was fired low and upwards."

"Yes," Ducky agreed. "The shooter was either short or bending over."

"In a headlock?"

"The shot wasn't that close."

"And there's no sign of a fight – maybe he knew his killer," Palmer mused. Then he stopped. "That is one serious neck break. Professional: like Gibbs would have done."

"Exactly," Ducky confirmed, ominously.

They stood in silence for a long time. So long, in fact, Palmer started to worry that he had forgotten something.

Finally, Ducky took a step back. "After you, Mr Palmer," he invited, indicating the body on the trolley.

"Oh, right." In all his deep contemplation, he had forgotten he still had to do the autopsy.

Palmer took a deep breath and strode confidently to the body bag. This was only the external, he told himself, almost entirely non-intrusive. Slowly he undid the zipper to reveal Matt's body. His mouth went uncomfortably dry again and his tongue swelled up to twice its normal size, making it almost impossible to manipulate with any grace. He looked so life like he kept expecting his eyes to fly open.

In the background, he could hear Ducky turning on the recording equipment and moving the microphone.

"I'm not sure if I can …," said Palmer quietly to himself as his nerve faltered.

Ducky did not pause in his set up routine. "Just explain to him what you are doing," he said steadily, "and he'll be fine."

Palmer shot Ducky a puzzled look.

"Go on," Ducky encouraged.

Palmer swallowed hard and eyed the microphone. Anything he did or said was going to be recorded for prosperity.

"Ahhh, we have a mid-twenties Caucasian male." He paused. "Actually he's a quarter Chinese on his mother's side. It's almost impossible to tell because his skin is so white but it's in the eyes – see the shape and color?"

"Oh yes," Ducky seemed mildly interested and Palmer suddenly realised he was wondering off into idle chatter just like his mentor. It was only a matter of time before he started wearing red suspenders and an elephant motif bow tie.

He shook himself and continued. "Subject is attired in casual clothing. Dirt, twigs and other debris are present but were not evident at the scene." He picked up a swab from the tray. "Securing a sample of dirt for analysis." He looked up startled as Ducky held out a specimen jar. The old man was assisting him.

"You weren't attempting this particular hike Mr Palmer?" Ducky enquired conversationally.

"Oh, I haven't hiked in ages," said Palmer absently, dropping the swab into Ducky's jar. "My girlfriend really isn't into it."

Suddenly realised what he'd said and his mouth snapped shut but Ducky seemed nonchalant. "You must bring the young lady around sometime."

"Ahhh, sure."

Palmer turned his full attention to the task at hand. "Fingernail scrapings: probably just more dirt – there was no sign of a struggle so I don't really expect to find anything from the killer."

Palmer paused and looked over the face and head: the expression began to look dangerously animated.

"Focus, Mr Palmer."

He caught himself, took a deep, steadying breath and let it out slowly through his mouth. The 'denial' phase of grieving went a lot more smoothly if one didn't actually have to perform the autopsy.

"I'm going to take samples over the entire head and neck area," Palmer explained. "The places we know the killer must have touched you. He touched you, Matt, and he's left a trace somewhere. We're going to find him, don't you worry."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ducky smiling.

"And we need some blood," Palmer continued, "just in case it can tell us something." He pulled out a syringe and hunted the femoral artery. "This won't hurt a bit."


	5. Women and Sympathy

**Chapter 5 - Women and Sympathy**

"Why don't you take those samples up to Abby," Ducky suggested when they had completed the external examination. "I'll play diener today. Give me about half an hour to clean him up and we can start the internal."

Palmer nodded dumbly in agreement: he could do with the break and they both knew it. Tray in hand, he headed off to Abby.

* * *

"Oh Palmer, I'm so sorry!" Abby cried as he walked in the lab.

He only just had time to slide the sample tray onto a neighbouring bench before she caught him in one of her legendary full blow hugs. Unsure of the proper Abby hug reciprocating protocol, he held his arms out with robot stiffness.

She released him and held him at arm's length, her hands grasping his shoulders.

"You're tense," she surmised. "You need a massage."

"But I only came to give you these.."

"Sit, Palmer," she commanded pushing him onto an adjacent lab stool.

"Um, OK."

Abby was surprisingly strong when she was on a mission but that wasn't the entire reason he was currently sitting on a lab stool with her hands massaging his neck and shoulders. It was like the fulfilment of a schoolboy crush – she cared, she finally noticed him, she ...

"What are you doing?" Michelle's voice was crisp and dangerous.

"Massaging Jimmy."

Palmer's eyes met Michelle's and he saw uncertainty tinged with anger. He replied with an apologetic and hopefully suitably pathetic gaze that he prayed would hold her over until they could talk. Did she really think he would prefer Abby to her? In all the stress and commotion he had simply forgotten to tell her. From the look on her face, the oversight might prove costly.

"I have some papers for you to sign," Michelle said pointedly to Abby. Her tone was brisk and business like but there were icicles dripping from every syllable.

"Leave them there," Abby said. "Palmer's had a hard couple of days. He passed out at a crime scene yesterday and today he has to autopsy a friend."

Michelle's eye's opened questioningly and some sympathy flowed through to him. He smiled sadly and nodded.

"Well, I'm great at massage," Michelle declared, throwing down her paperwork and usurping Abby. "You sign the papers and I'll do the massage."

Abby staggered slightly as Michelle almost elbowed her out of the way. For a moment, Palmer panicked that Abby would put two and two together but she said nothing – simply signed Michelle's forms and his own and took the autopsy specimens to her refrigerator.

Safe in Michelle's familiar caress, Palmer felt himself relax for the first time since he'd breeched the crime scene. Whereas Abby's touch was daring, confronting and exciting, Michelle's was comforting, homely and caring. He could smell her warm, sweet spicy breath on his neck and feel her gentle fingers as they worked their way over his shoulders then down, down until she started smearing her hands across his back, running her fingers through the lines between his muscles, her breath hot and steamy on his neck… she stopped and reigned in her passion.

He turned to look at her and they shared a guilty smile. She risked a chaste kiss on the top of his head and resumed her massage in a more demure manner.

* * *

"Is Mr Palmer still with you Abigail?" asked Ducky over the intercom. "We still have the internal to do."

Abby looked over to where Michelle was still massaging Palmer with slow, rhythmical strokes along the sides of his neck. He was slumped comfortably against her and appeared to have fallen asleep. Michelle was looking back at her with regret clearly etched on her face.

"Ah, yes," Abby confirmed. "I'll send him down."

She turned to see Michelle gently shaking Palmer and calling his name. She wasn't joking – she was good at massage.


	6. On the inside

**Chapter 6 - On the inside**

Ducky was relieved when Palmer finally returned to autopsy. Nervous and hesitant, his assistant seemed somehow younger than when he first arrived. Then, Ducky had been impressed with him: the student who didn't baulk at the giant meat puzzles they were called upon to reconstruct with alarming regularity. Apart from one incident with the fried chicken smell on the ambulance body, Palmer had proved himself to be a competent and confident assistant. Now, for the first time, Ducky was genuinely worried about him.

He had been taken by surprise when Palmer collapsed at the crime scene. Despite spending an inordinate percentage of his life evaluating the impact of various items on the human body, Ducky rarely witness firsthand how forcefully a person could slam into the ground. The vision of Palmer keeling over like an oversized domino block and lying pallid and unresponsive on the ground had plagued him since. At the time, it seemed like hours before Palmer regained consciousness. Time enough for Ducky to call his name, check his pulse, loosen his tie, wrestle him into the recovery position and do a quick glucose test.

Then those misty green-rimmed hazel eyes appeared and Ducky had breathed a sigh of relief. Palmer had clearly been in shock and the subsequent incident with Gibbs at the car where he zoned out in the middle of a sentence and nearly passed out again, coupled with the panic attacks in the van on the way back to headquarters, underlined the need to keep a close eye on his protégée.

Even this morning at the external, he had twice seen Palmer's eyes glaze over but he had also seen him pull himself back to reality. Now the internal would tell what Palmer was cut out for – no pun intended.

Contacting the victim's parents to view the body after sending Palmer home had been a wise move. They were, understandably, devastated and it wouldn't have looked good for the autopsy staff to be visibly upset by proceedings. Worse still, Palmer could have said something entirely inappropriate as he often did in times of stress.

Ducky watched Palmer intently as he picked up a scalpel. He looked pale already and was that sweat forming on his brow?

Time stretched out before them.

"Mr Palmer?" he prompted.

"I'm not sure I can do this, Doctor," Palmer's voice was worryingly faint.

"Of course you can," Ducky verbally slapped him in the face. "You've done this hundreds of times."

Still Palmer hesitated. Ducky knew what was going on inside his head: the fear that the corpse is going to open its eyes and say, "ouch".

"Mr Jonstone is not going to autopsy himself," Ducky tried to goad Palmer into action.

He was rewarded with a look he was unaccustomed to receiving from his assistant. Was that a glower? It vanished in an instant.

Wordlessly, Palmer inserted the knife and began a slightly uneven Y-cut. His stroke was shaky, but relentless. Spreading the triangular pieces of flesh, he slowly and methodically, clipped each rib and removed the rib cage.

"Just as we thought," Palmer said with only a hint of a quaver. "The bullet was not a kill shot."

"Agreed."

"And you can see the trajectory clearly. We should be able to a good height estimate from that." Palmer deftly dug out the offending projectile and Ducky made haste to present the specimen jar. "To Abigail, if you will, Dr Mallard," Palmer joked with forced levity as Ducky screwed on the lid.

"That's quite enough from you, young man," Ducky retorted gently with an encouraging smile.

Palmer scanned the internal organs. "Everything looks in perfect health." His voice faded to a whisper, "what a tragic waste."

"They're all a waste," Ducky reminded him.

Palmer peered up at him sadly over the rims of his glasses and Ducky was struck momentarily by the contrast to the glassy irises of the previous day. "Yes," he said simply. He paused in contemplation. "Why," he said at last, "would anyone shoot someone once and then strangle them? There was no sign of a struggle. Did he just keep one bullet in his gun for emergencies?"

"That's not our job," Ducky reminded him. "But I'm sure we'll find out in due course".


	7. Secondment

**Chapter 7 - Secondment**

"Ducky, I need to borrow Palmer," Gibbs announced by way of introduction as he strode into Autopsy.

Palmer looked up from typing on the computer and saw Ducky draw himself up.

"And good morning to you too, Jethro."

"We need him to help in our investigation," Gibbs tried again.

"He's a doctor, not an agent," Ducky challenged.

"It's because he's a doctor that I need him. They've closed ranks on us – we need someone on the inside."

"I repeat," Ducky's volume increased slightly, "Mr Palmer is not an agent. He's not trained for that."

"I'm not asking him to make an arrest, I just need information."

Palmer caught Ducky's worried glance in his direction and the low, "I'm not sure he's ready." Slumping in his chair, he watched the increasingly heated exchange. What was Ducky so concerned about? He had completed the internal in a professional manner and even taken the evidence up to Abby himself. How would Ducky have known about his quick diversion to the men's room on the way back? Maybe he just looked as shaky as he felt yesterday.

The two men adjourned to Ducky's office to have it out leaving Palmer alone at his station. He sighed and returned to his task. Michelle had – taken his mind of things somewhat after work and he'd slept better last night. All he wanted to do now was to help find out who killed Matt. Resolved, he stood, went to Ducky's room and threw open the door.

"I'll do it," he said.

Ducky and Gibbs stared at him, stunned momentarily out of their animated discussion.

"Anything to help," he continued.

Gibbs threw Ducky a smug look.

"Be careful," said Ducky with a concern Palmer had never known.

"He'll be fine, Duck," Gibbs dismissed the old man's concerns. Grabbing Palmer by the sleeve, he guided him away from Ducky before the opportunity evaporated. "It's not as if he's going to push a policeman off a cliff."

* * *

As Palmer entered the conference room it was clear the agents had set up a briefing especially for him. Tony, Ziva, McGee and even Abby were all waiting expectantly at one end of the table. Gibbs led him to the other end, indicated he should take a seat and joined his team. It was like a hostile job interview.

"How well do you know the Base Commander?" Gibbs began.

Palmer was surprised. "Um, not at all – he's like the 'Base Commander'."

"Good, we have a little mission for you."

"Ah, sir?" He hadn't meant to interrupt but if he was going to be involved, he wanted to know some details.

"Palmer?"

Now he had Gibbs' attention, he found himself unable to phrase a coherent question. Finally he managed, "What have you found out so far?"

There was a perceptible pause before Gibbs spoke. "Not much," he admitted finally. "Dr Jonstone was hiking Sunday with the hiking group, they arrived at the base around 16:00, TOD is 17:00 – 19:00."

"So what happened in between?"

Gibbs stared at him, seemingly unable to believe he'd asked the question. "He was murdered, Palmer."

"But where did he…"

"His movements weren't tracked. The guards didn't notice anything and the Base Commander – well, he's on our hit list. We need you to have a chat to him."

"About what?"

"I don't know, make something…." Gibbs stopped, suddenly acknowledging the man before him was not an agent.

"Ask him for information about a biography on the victim. Tell him it's for the medical journal or the hiking club. I need to know anything Palmer: any connection between the Base Commander and Matt Jonstone. You have an appointment in half an hour."

"But how will I know what things are important?"

"You won't," Abby cut in approaching him with an earwig and microphone, "but they'll be listening to everything and talking you through it."

He could sense the scepticism in the room as Abby wired him up.

"Stop shaking," said Abby in exasperation.

Palmer felt the confidence level in the room drop another notch.

Abby finished and stood back to admire her work. "You are good to go, Jimster."

* * *

The elevator doors opened momentarily at the squad room to reveal Agent Lee clutching her usual folder stuffed with papers. Seeing him there, wedged between Special agents and festooned with surveillance devices, her eyebrows rose in surprise and trepidation. McGee alighted and skirted around her. The door slid shut again and she disappeared from Palmer's view leaving only a worried look burned into his retina like a terrified Cheshire cat.


	8. Secret Agent Man

**Chapter 8 - Secret Agent Man**

Palmer sat on an overstuffed lounge chair in the Base Commander's waiting room, his left knee nervously bobbing up and down. He clamped it still with his hand. The right leg took over. The microphone was etching a painful patch on his chest and it took all of his self control not to rip open his shirt and move it. In his right ear he could hear the agents talking amongst themselves like dysfunctional voices in his head. Every now and again, someone would say something too loudly and the tinnitus in his ear would screech momentarily, making him cringe. They were stationed in the carpark just outside the building. On the one hand, he wished they were right beside him, on the other, he wished they wouldn't listen to him fumbling his way through a conversation with the Base Commander.

The secretary gave him an encouraging smile. "He won't be long."

The door swung open abruptly, causing him to jump. "Dr Palmer?"

Palmer bounded up. "Ah yes sir but it's not quite Doctor yet."

The Commander gave him a Gibbs' 'I really don't care' look and he shut his mouth. "Come in."

Settling behind his large mahogany desk, the Commander motioned Palmer to the chair in front of him. "Commander Williams," he introduced.

"Ah Palmer: James Palmer," Palmer stumbled.

"I'm sooooo glad Sean Connery can't hear this," muttered Tony in his ear.

"I know your name," the Commander reminded him.

Palmer grimaced - he was already off on the wrong foot.

"You one of ours?" the Commander inquired in a disinterested tone.

"Ah yes, I work for Mr Mallard – in Autopsy."

The Commander leaned back in his chair and his gaze wondered around the room. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

"Um, ah, I'm a doctor in, ah, in the hiking club and I, um, wanted to ask about Matt Jonstone."

The Commander was immediately alert, his attention focused in on Palmer. "Well, that was quick: probably just as well. The new dispatcher at the dispensary has taken the news badly but we've cobbled together another load. It's ready for you now."

Palmer stared at him, stunned.

"Go with it," urged Gibbs' voice in his ear.

Palmer swallowed dryly. "Ah, ok then. Thanks. I'll be on my way."

"What's that in your ear?"

Palmer froze and his brain whirred. He assumed, 'it's an earwig so NCIS can listen in to your conversation', was the incorrect response. "It's a new device we're testing for tinnitus," he said confidently.

"Oh," the Commander dismissed him.

* * *

Palmer could hardly contain his excitement when he reached the NCIS car containing the three agents – his backup. He ran the words through his mind again: 'his backup'. "Did you hear?" he said.

Gibbs seemed bemused by his exuberance. "Yes Palmer, we heard. Now let's get to the dispensary and clear up this mess."

* * *

Ducky looked up as the phone rang – it was an inside line. Outside the building but still on base.

"Autopsy," he answered automatically.

"Dr Mallard?"

"Speaking."

"It's Commander Williams here."

Ducky was immediately on his guard. "What can I do for you Commander?"

"I wanted to ask you about Dr James Palmer – he works for you?"

"Yes, what about him?"

"Does he hike?"

"Yes, has a merit badge in it, I believe."

"And tinnitus?"

"Yes, poor soul. He tunes pianos – it's an occupational hazard. Many piano tuners suffer from acoustic damage like tinnitus, it's all the hammering, you know. I once went out with a girl who tuned pianos, although I'd hardly call her sound in any sense of the word …"

"Thank you for your time Doctor Mallard."

"Not at all Commander."

Ducky waited for the call to drop out then hit the speed dial to Gibbs.

"Jethro – I've just had a call from your Commander to verify Mr Palmer's story. You're not putting my assistant in harm's way are you?"


	9. The thot plickens

**Chapter 9 - The thot plickens**

Gibbs cut the connection to Ducky and looked back at Palmer, fidgeting in the backseat next to Ziva.

"No heroic's Palmer," he warned. "We'll be listening to everything – just in case."

Palmer swallowed hard causing the earwig to shift in his canal. "In case?"

"In case," Gibbs confirmed ominously.

Palmer's heart rate increased a little as he translated the 'reassurance' into medical jargon: 'whatever happens, we have the antidote.'

"Let's go, Palmer."

Palmer positively leaped out of the car and slammed the door closed behind him. He knew patience wasn't one of Gibbs' virtues but he was rarely in his firing line. Now he was alone outside a building claiming, by virtue of a large sign, to house the dispensary. It occurred to him this might be the last time he saw the outside world. Fortifying himself with one last glance at the car, he saw the three agents waving back wanly. They didn't look like they were expecting too much of him.

"They close at five," said Gibbs in his ear.

His watch showed 15:30 - ah sarcasm. He took the hint and set off for the front door. A twisting maze of corridors, each bearing the sign 'To dispensary', led him to a long counter with a mesh fence running almost its full length except for a small window in the middle where a young man was watching him – and clearly wishing he would go away. It was difficult to determine which of them was more nervous.

"Ah hello," Palmer quavered slightly.

"Can I help you?" the other man quavered back.

He looked about sixteen and Palmer entertained the thought that his voice was breaking. Initially, the boy appeared to be sitting but a second look revealed he was, in fact, standing behind the counter.

Palmer cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm Jimmy Palmer."

Blank stare.

"From the hiking club."

"Oh," said the dispenser in sudden comprehension. "They said you'd be coming. I have the package around here somewhere." He pulled out a ladder and propped it against the back wall. "Just had the higher shelf put in to add more space," he explained, climbing upwards. He returned from his ascent with a small shoe-box sized package wrapped in brown paper which he handed to Palmer.

"Ah thanks," said Palmer. "Do I sign for it?"

There was a collective audience groan in his earpiece but the inexperienced man in front of him did not bat an eyelid. "Ah, no I don't think so," he replied.

"It's dumb and dumber," said Tony.

"They never said anything about it," continued the young man beginning to tremble. "I'm new here. Sunday's package was my first and that didn't go too well."

"See what he can tell you about the Sunday package," whispered Gibbs in his ear.

Palmer was starting to get dizzy from the various voices competing for attention in his head. "What happened?"

The young man dumped himself on a stool and actually looked taller. "No idea. I did everything they told me – gave him the package and he walked out." His voice started rising in pitch and volume. "Next thing I know the Commander tells me he's dead and there's no sign of the package. There's no sign of it at the other end either so it was never posted….I just don't know what…."

"I am sure we'll … they'll find out what happened," Palmer tried to reassure the distraught man.

"Without finding out about this?"

"Um, I don't know," Palmer admitted.

The dispenser sat up straighter and pulled himself together. "Just don't let the same thing happen to you," he warned.

"Um, no – I hope not." Gibbs' reassurance spun round in his head.

The two men stared at each other in awkward silence until Palmer heard Gibbs impatient voice in his ear again urging him to leave. "Well, I'd better get this to the, ah… where is it going again?"

"Post office," said the dispenser. "I hope you have the address because he never gave it to me."

"Yeah, no problem," said Palmer as he left.

* * *

Palmer was visibly shaking when he reached the NCIS car again so it was comforting to see all three agents open their doors and exit the car hurriedly. Less comforting was the way they pounced on the box in his hand.

"What have you got?" asked Gibbs taking it from him.

"I, ah, don't know sir."

Gibbs looked it over carefully. "Did we find something like this at the crime scene in those dumpsters, DiNozzo?"

"No Boss."

"Headquarters," said Gibbs succinctly and the agents simultaneously disappeared back into the car, closing the doors behind them.

Palmer frowned as the engine started.

"Coming Palmer?" asked Gibbs in his ear.

"Sure - that was rhetorical wasn't it?"

"So was that."


	10. Observation

**Chapter 10 - Observations**

"Thanks for your help, Palmer," Gibbs dismissed him as they entered the building.

Palmer trailed after him. "But…but don't I get to see what's inside?"

"Not unless we need more help."

"But Sir."

Gibbs rounded on him. "You've done enough, Palmer. Now get back to Ducky. We'll let you know when we've solved it." He spun on his heels and left Palmer standing in his wake.

* * *

Palmer was more than a little annoyed when he re-entered Autopsy, storming through the door and planting himself heavily on a chair with a mighty huff.

Ducky looked up calmly from the body he was currently dissecting. "Ah," he deduced.

Palmer frowned at him, puzzled.

"You did your job and now Gibbs has dumped you back here," said Ducky.

Palmer could contain his exasperation no longer. "It's just…well… he didn't even let me know what was in the box!"

"Bring me a specimen jar, Mr Palmer," Ducky requested. "Then start at the top, if you please."

* * *

"… And then he told me my job was over and to come back to you!"

Palmer was gesticulating wildly with a specimen jar still firmly clasped in one hand.

"Abby," said Ducky simply as he concentrated on his stitching.

"What about her?"

Ducky did not pause. "All roads lead to Abby in this place. Just give her about an hour, take a Caf-Pow and you'll be amazed what she'll tell you."

* * *

"Hiya, Abs," Palmer greeted as cheerily as he could.

He held out the Caf-Pow offering at arm's length.

"Jimmy," she chastised him gently, "you don't need to bribe me to get information: you're a friend."

"Oh." Palmer withdrew the Caf-Pow only to have Abby chase it until she was nose to nose with him.

"But," she continued, "as a friend, you are welcome to bring me a Caf-Pow, anytime."

Palmer smiled at her and relinquished his hold on the cup.

She returned the smile and spun away from him clutching it lovingly to her bosom. "We got DNA from a hair sample you found on the body which matched a sample under the fingernails but without someone to match it too….."

"No luck."

"No, sorry."

"What was in the box?"

"Morphine, mainly: some antibiotics, but mostly pain killers. All bottled up in plastic containers labelled 'oral hygiene'."

"Hmm, that's sort of weird."

"More weird," Abby added, "is that the same type of box was sent to the same address in Africa once a month."

"Africa?"

"That's the woman in the post office said. Every Monday morning once a month like clockwork."

"Could you trace it? Where's it going?"

"It wasn't registered, just sent. The declaration form said 'oral hygiene products'. We're just lucky it's a small post office and the lady at the counter was a bit of a busy body."

"Africa, Africa," Palmer savoured the word, "where have I heard about Africa recently?"

"You know…." Abby teased, "you could try going to the observation room where they are interviewing the Commander right now…."

* * *

Tony, McGee and Ziva looked completely unfazed to see Palmer pop his head into the observation room.

"I was just looking for…"

"Get in here, Palmer," said Tony.

"Oh, ah, thanks." He shuffled in and closed the door softly behind him. "What have I missed?"

"Not a lot," McGee assured him. "The dispenser just about peed himself but the Commander is acting very cool. Gibbs is just going for the jugular."

Palmer squeezed himself on the edge of the viewing glass next to McGee and watched.

"Of course we're shipping medicines to third world countries," the Commander was saying calmly. "It's a Navy tradition."

"Who knows?"

"Base Commander, dispenser and courier – we like to keep the pool small."

"So what you're saying is that I only have two suspects?"

"Not at all – I'm saying every Base ex-Commander, every ex-dispenser and every ex-courier is a potential suspect plus anyone receiving at the other end."

"How many still alive to question?" Gibbs prompted.

"I'd say about 10 at our end. I can give you their names." Palmer noticed the Commander was subjecting Gibbs to the same disinterested look he himself had enjoyed.

Gibbs pulled himself into the Commander's eye line and yelled. "And can you tell me which one KILLED MATT JONSTONE?"

Palmer's knees turned to jelly. In all the excitement of solving a mystery, he had completely forgotten there was a real human catalyst – his own friend. The realisation hit him full force like a giant tidal wave, sucking the air out of his lungs.

"Chair, Palmer," McGee's voice was urgent, filled with worry.

He wobbled inelegantly to a sitting position guided by someone's hands. Cold chills rattled his frame and he couldn't prevent small gasping noises weaselling their way out as his tried to breathe.

"Deep breaths, Palmer," it was Ziva's soothing voice. She also seemed to be stroking his back – at least he hoped it was her.

In the background he could hear Abby doing the DNA swab on the Commander. He certainly didn't seem to be offering any resistance.

It took a few minutes before Palmer's body reassembled itself into something resembling normalcy. Slowly raising his head, he met three pairs of concerned eyes crouched at his level.

"I don't think I'm cut out to be a special agent."


	11. Teamwork

**

* * *

**

Chapter 11 - Teamwork

"Ahh, he's sending essential medicines offshore," Ducky surmised when Palmer relayed the news the next morning. "Not unusual."

"Really?"

"Oh yes, quite common. You see the armed forces provide free medicine to active servicemen and women and their families."

"Even their families overseas?"

"Ah, no," Ducky conceded. "Usually it's confined to families living on base but most dispensaries are known to hand out, say, contraceptives pills to a male serviceman in the knowledge that it is going to his wife. Why I know of one Airforce pilot who was forced to endure a lecture on the benefits of fibre because his wife suffered from pre-menstrual constipation - nearly caused a divorce."

"But Matt didn't even have a girlfriend."

"And there weren't any contraceptives in there, were there?"

"Ah no."

"No, you friend wasn't so much acquiring drugs for family members but sending them overseas to some doctor in Africa who really needs them – laudable but not strictly legal."

"His brother's a doctor in Africa," said Palmer suddenly. He knew he'd heard Matt mention a country somewhere in that continent. Where had that recollection been hiding and why didn't choose to reveal itself when he was talking to Abby so he could look knowledgeable?

"Ahh, well - that might be a connection we should mention to Gibbs."

"He seemed like such a good guy," said Palmer quietly.

"He was good, Mr Palmer," said Ducky sternly. "Make no mistake about that: a good person and a good doctor. The Hippocratic Oath is open to all sorts on interpretation. This sort of thing goes on all over the world: an undocumented government aid program. Back when I was serving in...well never mind. Let's just say there are a lot of people around who wouldn't be alive without this sort of help. Everybody in the forces 'knows' they just don't know the exact details."

"The Base Commander knew."

"Which makes him a suspect – and since the box was not found on the body…"

"Or in the dumpsters near the body…"

"The chances are that your friend Matt was killed for his package by someone who knew about the delivery."

Jimmy's eyes widened excitedly. "That guy in the dispensary was short!"

"How short?"

"Short enough."

"Let's have a look, shall we?" Ducky replaced his tools carefully, peeled off his gloves and walked towards the computer.

"Ahhh, how?" asked Palmer, following behind.

"They are a medical facility on the base, are they not?"

"Well, yes…."

"Well then, they'll be…," Ducky prompted.

"Connected to us on the base medical intranet!" Palmer finally twigged.

Ducky pulled out the chair in front of the computer and motioned for Palmer to sit.

"Don't you want to drive?" Palmer offered.

"I'll let you have the honours, Mr Palmer," Ducky replied. "Youthful fingers are far more dextrous. Besides – I'm the brains in this operation: you're the brawn."

Palmer took a moment to flex his brawny fingers and then sat down in front of the monitor. Grabbing the mouse, he narrated his actions. "Base Facilities, Dispensary, ah, here we are: staff." He clicked on the link but was suddenly disappointed: the picture on the screen was not of the man he had met. This man was middle aged. Strong and sturdy, his square head looked like it had been nailed onto his square body bypassing the need for a neck completely.

"But that's not him," he said, disappointed.

"Must be the previous incumbent," Ducky grumbed. "You said the dispenser was new. How tall was this one?"

"Ahh, here's his bio and stats…. No good: 6 ft 2 marine."

"Well, he didn't do it – unless he was on his knees at the time."

There was a pause as the two men studied the picture, then Palmer squinted and leaned in close to the image. "Dr Mallard," he said, "Is that thing behind him what I think it is?"

Ducky removed his glasses and inspected the picture carefully. Then his eyes came alive. "You know, I bet you're right."

Ten minutes of fruitful net surfing later, Palmer sat back in the chair and smiled at Ducky. "It's got to be him."

"I agree," said Ducky.

"Shouldn't call the agents and tell them."

Ducky shot him a withering look. "How long have you been working here?"

"Nearly five years, why?"

"When does anyone 'just call' around here? No, if you want to get people's attention in this place, you spend countless hours creating absurdly complex models and simulations to convey information which could be easily summarised in two sentences. At the very least, you need to provide an in-house demonstration - it's show boating. To use a cricketing analogy - we have to be on the front foot. "

"So what do we do?"

"We give them a mysterious phone call and instruct them to come down here: puts us in the seat of power."

"Ohhhh," said Palmer, unconvinced.

Ducky merely smiled inscrutably and picked up the phone. "Jethro? Mr Palmer and I have something here you should see. Come on down – and bring the team."

* * *

Author note - the constipation story is true.


	12. Show Time

**Chapter 12 - Show time**

The door swished open and four special agents swept in. Through habit they formed an orderly line before the body on the autopsy table.

"We're over here," called Ducky from the computer.

Confused, the agents regrouped and moved scrum-like to the computer.

"Whatchta got?" asked Gibbs.

"Mr Palmer and I have been surfing the dispensary: staff, stock – the works."

Gibbs turned to look at McGee.

"I was trying boss," he pleaded, "but the medical computers are connected by an internal intranet. I had to find an access point. It's not physically connected to…"

But Gibbs was not in the mood for explanations and returned his attention to Ducky.

"Now our results showed the shooter was short – very short, and someone with serious training in unarmed combat. While our dispenser is possibly almost vertically challenged enough to fit the bill, Mr Palmer tells me he was an unlikely to qualify in the physical department. In our search for him, however, we came across the previous dispenser."

Gibbs squinted at the screen, "Randy Lundom."

"Yes," Ducky confirmed, "Ex Marine."

"This guy's too tall," Gibbs pointed out the statistics on the screen.

"Yes and no. Look behind him – there."

"Wheelchair?"

"Yes, his medical records indicate he received a back injury while skylarking on Navy property. He didn't receive adequate compensation because he was found mostly culpable for the injury. He is most probably in constant pain."

"That's good work, Ducky," said Gibbs. He turned to his team, "warrant now."

"There's more, Jethro," said Ducky. "Mr Palmer."

Palmer was taken aback at the mention of his name and suddenly all eyes were upon him. "Um, yes. We, ah, checked out the dispensary stock and well – here you can see it." He brought up a graph on the screen showing painkiller stock. "The flow of pain killers is fairly steady during the year except for these blips each month where the drugs were withdrawn and sent overseas."

"What's that bit?" asked Tony drawn to a monotonic increase in the final two months.

"That is someone building up a supply," Gibbs mused.

"It starts a few days before the previous dispenser put in his notice," McGee chimed in.

"He needs the pain killers," Gibbs agreed.

"Oh he's most probably an addict by now, Jethro," said Ducky authoritatively. "He'd have to be getting pretty desperate given his on-tap source has dried up."

"So he went for the courier," said Gibbs.

"One question," McGee chimed in. "Why did he retire? He's not that old."

"They were moving him to general stores," Jimmy replied. "We found the notification in staff movements' bulletin. The official reason was they increased the storage in the dispensary by adding a high up shelf. I saw it: there's a ladder to reach it."

"Hard to climb a ladder in a chair," Gibbs commented.

"So we bust him," said Tony, simply. "There's got to be a lot of drugs stored somewhere. If he's that desperate, he'll be visiting supplies often."

"And the DNA evidence should confirm he touched Dr Jonstone around the neck," added Ziva.

"It's not enough," Gibbs pounded one hand on the desk, making everyone jump.

"He's right," said McGee regretfully. "Stealing does not imply murder, the batch numbers weren't recorded and the DNA could have come from, I don't know: a farewell hug."

Gibbs started pacing the room. "Weapon will have been ditched. We need to catch him in the act." He came to a dead halt and his eyes rose to meet Palmer. "How would you like to be a Special Agent again?"

"Not really," he whimpered.


	13. A Man's Job

**Author note: **I broke this last chapter into two - there is an obvious break point - but my husband is due back in about an hour and I'm going to spend time with him so I am posting the two chapters at the same time.

**Chapter 13 - A Man's Job (penultimate chapter)**

Palmer stood outside the modest cottage nervously clutching his brown-paper wrapped shoe box. If he squinted really hard, he could just about see the NCIS car parked way down the street. Or was that another car?

The earwig felt slightly more familiar wedged in his ear canal than previously but the microphone under his shirt was scratching precisely the same spot as last time.

"Today, Palmer." Gibbs' impatience echoed in his ear. Instinctively he looked towards the sound but it was in the opposite direction to the car. He hoped they couldn't see him.

He raised a hesitant hand and rapped twice on the door. Hearing nothing on the other side, he raised his hand again only to have the door swing open in front of him.

"Yes?"

Palmer looked down at the man in the wheelchair. He looked exactly the same as the one in the picture which was no mean feat for a Navy file shot. Stocky and well built, the man must have been a foreboding presence as a Marine. Palmer took a deep breath and blurted the speech he had rehearsed. Unfortunately, he had rehearsed with Abby.

"Um," he started, "Mr Lundom? I've replaced Matt Jonstone in the, ah, delivery and, well, I've lost the address and your replacement doesn't have it and I didn't want to go back to the Base Commander because it's my first time and he already doesn't like me…"

"Get inside," hissed Lundom, wheeling himself backwards into the room. "And close the door."

Palmer stepped inside hastily and pulled the door shut behind him. It responded with an ominous, prison-worthy 'screech...clunk'.

"Who knows you're here," demanded Lundom.

"Ah, no one," said Jimmy nervously. "I was just going to drop in and get the address and go."

Suddenly from beneath his seat, Lundom drew out a gun. "Change of plans," he snarled.

Palmer's brain was whirring through a million clever cryptic things to say to let the NCIS agents know that their help was required. Unfortunately, his throat had closed over denying air to his vocal chords so the staggeringly brilliant lines flitted away.

He had never stared down the end of a barrel before, and he hoped he would never have to again. No – hold on – he hoped to still be alive to have the choice of never looking down one again. It was fascinating in a sort of terrifying way: shiny, solid metal. It looked more substantial than he remembered the ones he had seen cradled safely in Special Agent halters. At least he understood the gun angle now: from his seat, Lundom was holding it outstretched and above his head.

Reflexively, he held out the box. If that was all the man wanted, he could have it. It was full random objects Abby had filled to sound and weigh like the original contents, but by the time Lundom found out, he'd be safe.

Lundom cocked the gun. "I'll claw it out of your cold dead hands, thanks."

"What?" the strangled sound squeaked out.

"I don't need a witness," Lundom explained.

The last thing Palmer felt was a piece of hard metal slamming into his forehead. He didn't even hear the shot that caused it.


	14. Safe and Epilogue

**Chapter 14 – Safe and Epilogue**

"Palmer," called a distant voice, "you're safe."

"What?" the word slurred out through his lips immediately preceding the onset of the blinding pain in his head.

"You got hit in the head with a gun."

Palmer tried to make sense of the conversation but failed. Prising his eyes open a crack, Gibbs swum into view.

"Blame DiNozzo," he suggested.

"It was a great shot, boss."

Ziva appeared next to his ear – she must have been kneeling down. "He shot the gun out of Lundom's hand and straight into your head."

"Hey," said Tony forcefully. "I saved your life, Palmer – don't let anyone tell you otherwise."

Palmer brought a hand up to his aching forehead and removed the icepack he found there. A tactile excursion revealed an egg sized lump rising majestically out of his head. "Thanks, Tony." He tried to keep the sarcasm at bay.

"You're welcome."

"Found the drugs, boss," McGee reported from somewhere in the distance. "How're you feeling Palmer?"

"Sore."

"Blame Tony."

"Hey!"

"But at least I'm alive."

"That's right," said Tony indignantly.

"Where's Lundom?" Palmer asked Tony.

"Under arrest."

"For killing Matt?"

"For trying to kill you."

"Did he kill Matt?"

"We're pretty sure the gun will match AND that Gibbs will get a full confession. He's already ranting about the Navy pushing him out of the dispensary by putting in that ladder."

* * *

**Epilogue**

The two companions were back together again in Autopsy, dissecting yet another poor unfortunate individual.

"I'm still not sure why he only used one bullet," Palmer mused. "He had plenty in the gun."

"Impotence," Ducky informed him.

Palmer thought he must have misheard. "Excuse me?"

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Mr Palmer," said Ducky in mock disgust. "I was referring to the impotence one feels when ones physical prowess is rudely taken away."

"Oh," Palmer wasn't really sure if he understood the explanation.

"Yes, strapping young man: super fit fighting machine suddenly pensioned off. The traditional Marine neck snap was his way of proving to himself that he still had it."

"So why shoot at all."

"Because he didn't still have it and the young buck he was attempting to kill did. The shot knocked him down to the ground where upon he could relive his youth. Probably would have done the same to you."

Palmer paled a little at the thought.

"So, not considering a career move to Special Agent then, Mr Palmer?"

"No. Frankly: I don't think I could take those earwigs anymore. Apart from the tinnitus, I found it off putting to have all these voices whispering in my head."

"You don't have that normally?" inquired Ducky.

"Ah, no," he said uncertainly, "should I?"

"Apparently not," said Ducky calmly. "Specimen jar, if you will, Mr Palmer."

"Besides, I think I prefer a more peaceful workplace. I mean it's not as if one of the bodies is suddenly going to come to life and shoot me."

Ducky froze. "Did I ever tell you how I lost my last assistant?"

* * *

**Author Note:** Thanks to all those who reviewed, it is much appreciated. Plot is REALLY not my strong suit and neither is Jimmy writing so thanks for indulging me. I am also setting up a Jimmy 'just the facts' on my wiki to document all the episode canon references to Jimmy. Hopefully this will encourage other writers to use him more.


End file.
